Our Year of Maybe

It’s the first time either of us has acknowledged it out loud since we made it.

“Right.”

“I—I’m sorry. I need some time. To think about it,” he repeats.

My room is too small. Too warm. Too disappointing. “Okay.”

By now I should know this is what happens when I try to get something I want from Peter.

He shuts my dresser drawer too loudly. “I should, uh, probably go.”

“And I have to pick up my car.”

I throw on a hoodie and Peter jams his feet into his shoes. I follow him downstairs—where, much to my shock, my parents are calmly eating breakfast with his.

“I hope you like scones,” Peter’s mom is saying, holding up a big box. “We got these from that new bakery on Stone Way.”

My mom takes a bite and lets out a horrifying moan of contentment. “Mmm, mmm, MMM. So good.”

“What’s . . . going on here?” I ask.

“Breakfast,” my dad says. I take a scone. “Sophie, Peter, can you take a seat for a moment?”

We slide into chairs at the kitchen table, my heart an increasingly panicky thrum inside my chest.

“We’ve been talking,” my mom says, “and we think you two are probably a little old for sleepovers.”

Apparently, I hadn’t been embarrassed enough for one day. It’s not even noon, and I would definitely like this day to be over, or at the very least for our parents to stop talking. They do not.

“We’ve been so lax about it,” Peter’s mom continues, “and of course we’re thrilled you two are such close friends, but it can’t happen anymore. Okay? You’re still welcome to spend as much time together as you want, but you’ve got to sleep in your own beds, in your own rooms.”

I open my mouth to say Peter slept on the floor and not my bed, but that seems beside the point.

Peter’s nodding. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

Maybe the strangest part of this is that Peter’s parents have always let him get away with just about anything.

We eat quickly, silently, before Peter mumbles something about homework and I follow him to the door.

“So . . . no more sleepovers,” I say as we step outside.

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ll see you later? Unless . . . unless you want me to take the bus with you to get your car from the party?”

I shake my head. “No. It’s okay. You have a lot to do. Homework.”

“Yep.” He makes this clicking sound with his jaw that he used to do all the time. I found it so annoying, but I never said anything. It’s amazing the things that stop bothering you when you’re in love with someone.

“Okay,” I say, and I wave at him, which I cannot recall ever having done in my life. But he returns it, and then he retreats across the street.

Montana and Liz are in the front yard cleaning up stray cups and other party debris. Montana waves when she sees me approach the house. She’s wearing pink leggings and a gray hoodie, her dark hair slicked up in its usual ballet bun. Liz, who’s as tall as Montana but curvier, is in a puffy black coat and slippers.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m picking up my car. I hope I wasn’t too embarrassing last night.”

“No. You were actually really fun,” Montana says. “It was unusual for you.”

“Thanks, I think?” I spin my keys around. Drunk Sophie equals fun Sophie. That makes me sad for some reason. The alcohol must have loosened me up, made me more like the shiny lightbulb person I am with Peter.

Liz ties the garbage bag she’s carrying into a knot. “That guy you were with, Peter? He’s in my Latin class. Is he your boyfriend?”